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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23190757">Blaze</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel'>Altariel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Captain and the Pilgrim [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:08:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,382</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23190757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altariel/pseuds/Altariel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf encounters the Steward's family.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Captain and the Pilgrim [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/10902</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Blaze</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Blaze</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Minas Tirith, in the Third Age<br/>
Midwinter </em>
</p>
<p>I reached Minas Tirith on a cold Midwinter’s night, there begging, and receiving, the hospitality of the Steward of Gondor. After we had broken bread together, and desiring some air and the taste of smoke, I walked out into the cold night, past the black tree, and on along the keel.</p>
<p>At the far end, a lantern on the wall beside him, stood a small figure. A boy – no more than ten, I would say – alone, wrapped in a dark green cloak, looking out across the fields of the Pelennor. Dotted all across that rich land were little bonfires; the farmers and their families marking the shortest day and the longest night and the turn of the year towards spring.</p>
<p>“My lord,” I said, and smiled in greeting.</p>
<p>“Lord Mithrandir,” he said, and gave me the most perfect and precise of salutes, his fist pressed against his heart, his head bowing with slow solemnity. Then we stood together and observed, in silence, the festivals far below.</p>
<p>“Did you know,” he said, at last, his voice still high and unbroken, “that Númenorean ceremonies did not make use of fire—”</p>
<p>“Not at first,” I began, but he lifted one finger to stop me speaking further.</p>
<p>“If I may finish,” he said. “They did not make use of fire until the arrival of the Deceiver.” He looked down at the fires, small shields against encroaching darkness. “When I am Steward, I might stop this.”</p>
<p>From behind us, I heard laughter and music emerge from the White Tower. “Are there reasons, do you think,” I asked, “why people may light bonfires at this time of the year?”</p>
<p>“I understand the reasoning—”</p>
<p>“Fire has many uses beyond light and warmth,” I said. “Beacons may summon aid. And Varda herself—”</p>
<p>“The Kindler, yes. But these seem unwholesome to me. Consider the Lords of Harad,” he went on. “Upon their deaths, wood is gathered, and oil poured, and their bodies are burnt. They do not embalm or entomb as we do. That alone we might consider odd, but they also select from among their living wives and children one each to join them on the fire.” His brows gathered. “It is a vile practice.”</p>
<p>I was startled at these words, from one so young. “Wherever did you learn this?”</p>
<p>“In the archives.”</p>
<p>“Do your tutors permit you to read such things?”</p>
<p>“My tutors?” He gave a scornful laugh. “My tutors are fools. I learn far more studying by myself.”</p>
<p>“And your father, the Lord Steward, what does he say of you reading such things?”</p>
<p>“My father?” He looked out across the dark fields. “My father is a very busy man.” He fell silent, but, as I watched, colour rose on his cheeks – hot, red – and then faded away. “When I have sons,” he said, “I shall take a great deal of interest in their education.”</p>
<p>A wave of pity washed over me at this; a glimpse at the loneliness that lay behind these words. More than anything, I desired to make this child smile.</p>
<p>“Do you like fireworks?” I said.</p>
<p>He turned to look at me, his expression a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “Fireworks?”</p>
<p>“They are not much known here, I think. But I have a trick or two up my sleeve.” And from the tip of my staff, some sparks arose, and they danced in the cold night air.</p>
<p>“How is this done?” he said, eyes ablaze.</p>
<p>I chuckled. “Would you believe me if I said that it was magic?”</p>
<p>The spark went out. “No,” he said, coldly. “I would not.”</p>
<p>Alas, I saw, a grave misstep. Other children loved to pretend, wished to enter the game of enchantment. This one – no, he had no need for such follies. He wished to possess knowledge. He wished to understand in full. I tried another show of sparkles, to rekindle his interest, but I could not breathe life into the ashes. I returned to my pipe. I made smoke rings, and indeed he watched them for a while, but, at length, he turned away.</p>
<p>“It is cold,” he said. “I think I shall go back inside.”</p>
<p>And he did, the young lord Denethor, and when next I happened to come this way, he was a man, and a father, and the Lord of the City.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>
  <em>Minas Tirith, in the Fourth Age<br/>
Midsummer </em>
</p>
<p>The King was crowned, and wedded to his Queen, and the White Tree was restored. My labours were finished, and soon I would seek my rest. On a warm and blissful midsummer’s evening, a new crescent moon in the West, I walked along the keel of the Citadel of Minas Tirith, and found there a man whose true life’s work was only now beginning.</p>
<p>The Steward of Gondor was leaning against the wall, a lantern at his side, staring across the Pelennor. Looking out, I saw small fires dotted here and there across the fields; some would be campfires, but in many places, people had already begun to return to their homesteads, to see what had survived the darkness and begin again.</p>
<p>After a while, the man beside me sighed and stirred. He was twisting something around in his hands, I saw; a silver circlet set with moonstones, newly made for the Prince of Ithilien. The stones glinted in the lamplight.</p>
<p>I reached for my pipe. “What do you hope for, lord,” I said, “from the days ahead?”</p>
<p>“Tonight?” he said. “Tonight, I hope that we cleared and planted the fields in time. I hope for a late harvest.”</p>
<p>“Ordinary thoughts,” I said, “for an extraordinary evening.” Behind us, music came from the Hall of Kings.</p>
<p>“Aye, well,” he said, and smiled at me. “Small steps.”</p>
<p>I tended my pipe, and listened to the merrymaking. I began to exercise my art. I made ships, and trees, and a dragon, and the young man beside me watched them blow away into the night. At length, the song and the smoke began to do their work, and he became easier.</p>
<p>“I stood here once, eighty years ago, on cold midwinter's night,” I said. “An age ago, it seems now. There were bonfires out on the fields then too: the farmers and their families, marking the turn of the year. I made some simple sparklers.” I blew out a ring in the shape of an eagle. “A young boy stood where you stand now. But he did not trust the fires.”</p>
<p>I had often thought back to that night; that missed chance. Might I have done something differently? Might I have found a way to cross the space between us? Perhaps as I was now – White, not Grey. Perhaps with that boy there might have been a meeting of minds. But not then. Still, though; this one – I had come in time for this one.</p>
<p>“I wish he had lived to see today,” said his son. “I wish he had met Éowyn.”</p>
<p>We heard voices behind us, calling his name. He stood up, straight, coming to attention. He put the circlet back upon his head. I saw the mantle of lord, steward, and prince settle upon him once again. But before he could take his leave, I reached for his hand. I placed it upon the stone of the wall, and laid my own upon it. The lantern beside us caught the red jewel on the ring that I bore.</p>
<p>“Look,” I instructed him. “Look past the fires, son of Denethor. Look at the places beyond. In the morning, in the East, dawn will break upon mountains that have been too long dark with dread and shadow. Ithilien will waken to new life. And the White Tree will blossom, and all your labours will bear fruit.”</p>
<p>Suddenly, in a great blaze, Elf song rang out across the stones of the High City. I moved my staff and worked my magic. High, high, the lights flared up, across the fields and the fallen and the fires below – the White Tree crowned with Seven Stars. Beyond the river a bright moon was swiftly rising, and we heard the whisper of children’s voices coming from the garden. And the man beside me laughed, like a boy, for the sheer joy – the marvel – of being alive.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My grateful thanks to the Gardeners of Ithilien for helping me finesse the ending, and preventing me from making moon-related blunders!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>Altariel, 11th January 2020</i></p></blockquote></div></div>
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